Chiaroscuro I: A Falling Through
by CatalpaWaltz
Summary: Six years after the events of The Phantom Menace, the path forward for master and apprentice is anything but clear.


/AN: Fixed the formatting. This is why I don't post things before traveling without my computer./

Trust the machine.

You can trust something without a heartbeat.

-Derrick Brown.

There is a reason that the Jedi raise their young on Coruscant.

It has nothing to do with the close proximity to political power, or culture, or the galaxy's centers of knowledge.

Like athletes who train on moons whose atmospheres' have lost most of their oxygen, the Jedi of ages past found it prudent to nurture their youngest initiates in a place almost utterly devoid of any peace.

To one sensitive to the illuminated presence of other living beings, the reality of the city-planet, with its uncounted torrents of sentients living and dying and dissipating, should be utterly crippling; an undifferentiated miasma of light and feeling and noise from which there could be no respite. But for those reared among the cacophony, such turbulence is easily sidestepped, brushed away before the promise of the Force's gentle radiance.

It is a fortunate thing, and one hardly remarked upon; felt, perhaps, only by those members of the Order who find themselves returning home after long stretches away - the shattering cymbal crash of so many lives packed so close breaking through into minds laid open to the faintest whispers from the plenum.

But there is a side effect — known to few, but ruthlessly exploited by those few. And it is this: the same thundering rush that strengthens a Jedi's capacity to sink from the world of spectacle into the resonating truth of the Force may also be used to obscure.

Three youths are standing on a platform in a public lev-train station. The trio consists of two humans, a male and female, and a tall, rangy Teevan. They stand close enough together to indicate familiarity, to provide a sense of separation and to ward off any unwanted intrusion from strangers, but no closer. They glance more often at their surroundings than they do each other, and only occasionally exchange low whispered words. The human male smiles, once, and brilliantly, but the expression is but a flash of light against the stony stillness of his face, and before any curious bystanders can cast a second look, it is gone.

They should be striking, but are not. They seem somehow smaller than life, the contrast of the Teevan's faintly luminous silver skin, the girl's brilliant copper hair, the boy's bright eyes, strangely muted and submerged into the dark dinginess of the station.

All eyes, photosensory organs, and optic disks glide over them as if they weren't there. Except, that is, for a single pair, shadowed by spacer's cap drawn low over a solemn face.

Despite their best efforts, they are being watched.

The train pulls up, and the youths board single-file. They stand together in the crowded car, weathering the waves of fellow travelers who threaten to push them apart from each other.

The train traces its meandering path through the Aurek-Dorn Financial Sector, the Besh-Jenth Residential District, hundreds of kilometers flitting past as it weaves easily through shining star-scrapers and towers of rotting durasteel left behind from projects centuries old.

The youths seem to relax the farther they get from the station. The human male says something to the Teevan that makes them laugh out loud, their voice like falling water. The Teevan rests a hand gently on the small of the girl's back, to steady her as the train rides a wave of sudden turbulence, and she smiles her gratitude.

The train steadily empties of most of its passengers, until the three are alone in the car. The human male rocks back and forth on his heels, clearly agitated. The others roll their eyes.

"What could you possibly be worried about?" asks the girl. "It's nothing you haven't done a dozen times before."

The boy shrugs, offers no explanation. The Teevan doesn't pry.

Finally, the train arrives at the end of its long, sinuous journey. The trio disembark, making for the exit.

Unseen and unsuspected, the Watcher follows them.

Two local airbuses and one hired auto-speeder later, the youths are standing at the base of a dark, towering wall of ancient flaking durasteel, one side of an impossibly massive structure. It's nearly an unidentifiable ruin now, so many years past its construction, but the suggestion of narrow windows and a few vapor chimneys hints at its one-time purpose.

The boy approaches the base of the monolith, waves his hand through the air to activate the flickering motion sensing lights, illuminate the outlines of a door. He steps closer, into the circle of light cast by the apparatus, and he knocks a slow rhythm — one, two, three, four, one-two. A portal appears in the center of the door.

One round, illuminated optic disk appears in silhouette. A babble of binary droid speak tumbles from an unseen vocabulator. The boy answers back in Basic.

"Pilot and pit crew of the Lightbringer, checking in."

Another burst of static and rapid-fire beeps, managing to convey exasperation even without the benefits of tone.

"Yeah yeah, okay, passcode's 'Wookie-breath.' Open up."

A shrill, plaintive creak, and the door is open. The trio descends into the yawning darkness within, a darkness that resolves itself, once the clumsy eyes of the humans grow accustomed to it (to the Teevan it is nothing at all) into a shadowy landscape of discarded equipment, the macabre outlines of discarded droids, somehow even more humanoid in their slow rusting death than they ever could have been in operation, and all faintly illuminated by glowing tracks, a course that weaves around and through this echoing space.

Behind them, the Watcher makes quick work of door and sentry, and follows his prey into the hushed shadows of the warehouse.

The warehouse is bustling, full to bursting with sentients and droids alike. The trio move like they know exactly where they're going, holding a hushed exchange with a group of Aleena before pausing in front of a locked shipping container which opens to reveal…a speeder bike. Gleaming in the low light, cobbled together from an obscure collection of pieces and parts that only a skilled mechanic would recognize, but magnificent. The three figures descend upon the machine with handfuls of tools brought out from pockets and belt-packs, tweaking and testing and tuning until the Teevan declares their work finished, the boy concurs, and they move their treasure towards the starting line of the dim, treacherous track.

The other contestants are starting to gather; the space cordoned off for spectators beginning to fill with bodies.

The girl presents the boy with a helmet and pair of gloves, meets his eye, and nods, just once, in solemn and familiar ritual. The Teevan gives the rear intakes of the bike a fond little pat of encouragement, then turns to the boy.

"Win this race, Skywalker, or you're gonna have to find yourself a new pair of best friends."

Anakin Skywalker flashes a grin at his companions. His eyes are almost preternaturally bright in the darkness of the warehouse. He scoffs.

"You've been saying that since we were ten."

Tru Veld's laughter carries over the rev of repulsor engines.

"Just don't get yourself crisped!" cries Darra Thel-Tanis as she ducks under the glowing safety cordon.

Anakin doesn't answer, but turns, still grinning, to face the open track ahead of him. He settles low against the body of the skiff, feeling the beat of its mechanical heart, twining his senses into the lines and circuits of its nervous system. He blinks — and there is suddenly no clear distinction between man and machine. The bike's capabilities, its limits, its needs and quirks all belong to him, are as understood as the needs of his own organic form.

He sinks lower into the approaching meditation of speed and heart-hammering risk, the impending ecstasy of riding along the knife's edge consuming his whole focus. He lets his awareness condense, the veils of his perception draw away from the cacophony of the little crowd, the bright presence of his friends, the rhythm of the city outside, until he is just this.

High above them comes the flash of the starting blaster, and they're off.


End file.
